Double Dave

When he was a tall strapping two trunk stud, Double Dave would laugh at the harsh winds that sometimes blew in over the ridge and struck deep into his side of Mary's Woods. Dave would puff up his canopy after the storms passed and gloat about his lack of fear in the face of Ma Nature's awesome power. 

The rest of the trees in the small preserve became tired of his constant bragging. They stopped talking to Dave. Everyone knew trees do not boast or show off. Trees are serious creatures; their lives dedicated to holding ground and providing sanctuary and sustenance to the many creatures and plants that depend on them. Being a blowhard is just wrong. Trees took their place in the world seriously. Double Dave was not a serious tree.

One night in the summer of 2008, a severe thunderstorm crested the ridge and roared into Mary's Woods. The canopy erupted in a panic of wild limb thrashing, as all the trees did their best to bend and not break. As usual, Double Dave laughed at the torrent hitting the preserve so hard. He called the others a bunch of nancies and told them to stand up and take it like a hardwood should.

The storm that hit intially, was just the calm before the real super cell hit 45 seconds later. Double Dave's twin trunk split and now his twin trunks were laying sad and splintered. Double Dave was done. He knew it. Before his lights went out, he declared;

"At least I didn't go out with a whimper!"

Dave never spoke another word. He did however, manage to face his death with well, not a grin, but what some trees contended was angry resignation.

From day that forward, he was known as "Mr. Grumpy Tree".

________________

I remember that storm. I am just not sure I have the year right. The storm took quite a few of the biggest pines and hardwoods out. Double Dave was not alone. 

I did not notice the face until day before yesterday.

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Just found this tune. Here is "Banty Rooster", by Ashspider? It may be an A-I song. Don't care, I like it.

That First Butterfly .......

Spring comes to Maine later than it does in parts south. Yesterday, I saw my first Butterfly of this new Spring. I was over to Mary's Woods on my first official walk of the Spring with Maggie. She was shivering with exceitement when she realizied we were headed across Sam Page Road instead of to the back of our property for a quick P,P &S. Maggie lives to run in those woods across the road. Dog Heaven for sure.

What struck me was how more in tune I am now to the subtle changes in the yearly cycles Ma Nature puts my part of the planet through. As a kid growing up in so many different locales, I never had a real chance to settle in and notice the small changes that signal what is coming. Or maybe, it just took me years of being settled in one place to see the fine print that had been there all along. 

Salmanders were one of my first signs of Spring here. My dad had warned me to watch out in basement early Spring:

"Watch where you step...... The Salamanders are horny. ...... Don't want to kill any, they're good luck you know." 

There were other indications warm weather was actually going to return to Acton. The months old snow cover begins to shrink and the snow fleas show up. There are countless indicators I mostly missed, that now let me keep tabs on what previously dependable cycles to expect.

Yesterday, while over to Mary's Woods with Maggie, I was again reassured warm days lay ahead when the pictured butterfly landed on my knee as I sat on a log. It only sat still for a second or two before it was off again in flutter mode and heading where, I have no clue. It chased the Sunlight that flashed through the bare branches of early Spring. It seemed a tad cool for a first butterfly sighting, but well, what do I know?

After Maggie and I finished our walk, I looked up the butterfly. It is a "White Admiral" , a regular every Spring who climbs out of the larva it wintered in. 

I was wondering why it seemed so disoriented. I mean, how can one tell a disoriented butterfly from an oriented one who knows where and what it is doing? Well, the normal appearance for these White Admirals in Maine is late May, early June. 

Hmm........ Maybe this one hitch-hiked up from Maryland.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................

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I thought of a song perfect for this day. The Rascals released it in 1968. I was 14 and though it seemed a chick song, I always liked it ........ And still due. "A Beautiful Morning". 

Aging Gracefully

This post is about my dog, Maggie. Pet posts are always safe. Besides, it is National Pet Day; not to be confused with International Dog Day which occurs on August 26.

When Stubby passed. I did not want to replace her right away. Actually I decided I did not want another dog. Watching them die was just too painful.

2017 came. I sold my bikeshop, quit smoking and discovered I was hard into fighting another tick borne disease. I dropped into Depression mode. My wife decided what I needed was another dog. She found one at a local shelter; a four year old bitch from a puppy mill somewhere south of the Mason Dixon Line. She thought we two might get along. I was skeptical, but in respect to her efforts on my behalf, "Okay, okay, let's check her out." 

I would go through the motions.

I will always remember our first encounter at the Kennebunk Shelter. BA went into the place to get Maggie while I sat on a bench in the cold and waited. She handed the leash to me: 

"Take her for a walk, I have to fill out the papers." 

I had not yet said okay, but said nothing. Maggie sat down near me, but not next to me. The leash was stretched out.. We looked at each other for some moments sizing each other up I guess.

I stood up. Maggie stood up. Good start I thought. She was the right size and seemed even tempered. I wondered how many litters she had to endure before she picked up heartworms and the puppy mill got rid of her. All the while she just looked at me. When I looked at her, she responded with a tentative tail flick, but not much else. No barking, no sounds at all.

I began to walk. She caught on immediately and kept pace with me. When I stopped, she stopped. Cool, at least one of us seems to know how to walk a dog. I certainly was not good at it. All of our dogs to that point very rarely had to endure a leash. We live in the sticks and voice commands work most of the time.

That day turned into a nine year mutual love affair. Like every pet we have shared our lives with, Maggie was unique combination of the times and trials in her life before we hooked up. She decided she loved me and gives me a daily hump to show her affection. I did not know female dogs carried on like brain dead males. Learn something everyday. Life is like that if we pay attention.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ..............................................

_______________________

How's the Yardwork going - So far, 20 plus hours and a trailer full of pucker hauled to the dump.

Tomorrow, I start on the mess roadside. 

______________________

I immediately thought of Charlie Parr's song "Dog". Enjoy.

How Does One Learn to Write Well?

I was exposed to the basics of writing in Grade School. By the time I left High School, I had a working knowledge of the nuts and bolts found in the discipline. It took years of intermittent scribbling before I began to notice I was becoming a better writer than I used to be.

I started a blog, "Lost in the BoZone" in 2004. At the time I considered the blog a passing fancy. After 20 years, it is apparent it not just something I just did for awhile. I am committed now. I give my attention to my blog all the credit for the major strides in improving my writing. Through the act of repetition, words began to come easier and often fell together in line just as I imagined they could.

I call writing a discipline because, if I have learned one thing, having a modicum of discipline and tenacity is what  helped me find a voice that could on occasion. make some sense.

But that was not the question, was it? 

How to write well hints are in short supply in my brain. I have come a long way since those clumsy essays, book reports, and the rambling bullshit I used in my blue book tests. If I couldn't dazzle them with my knowledge, I would beat them down with my bullshit.

There are a Gajillion Internet hook ups to find so called experts. For a small or not so small fee, they will turn you into the Stephen King you always wished, hoped, prayed you could be.

( Um, I have to interrupt this ever so fascinating opinion forming before your very eyes, but just the other day, I wanted to use the word "Gajillion" in a post. I have been trying to rein in my free range writing style so to produce a more acceptable, often boring style of writing that might please 7th grade English teacher, Ms Stanton. So. I punched up "Gajillion" and there on the screen, Gajillion was now an accepted almost real word which one definition claimed - "means more than a few". ....... So, there you have it. ...... In your face Ms Stanton. ............... Never mind...... Now, back to the points of the post I hope)

Earlier this AM, I watched Maggie go through her after breakfast rituals. She peed in one area, then moved deeper into the pucker to poop and finally it was time to check out the compost pile. Maggie is nothing if not predictable. As I sat on the compost bench out back, I caught a few tokes, sipped coffee, watched Maggie and thought about Writing Well.

The idea of  "Writing Well" is a fuzzy question with a fuzzy answer. Writing Well is really two things. There is the accepted grammatical conditions some might consider the barometer of good writing. But Grammatically correct writing only gets you in the ballpark. Good writing, in my opinion, is when someone reads something you wrote says, "Wow, that was awesome". 

When many people read your writing;  I guess that is what all of us who struggle along as so much pack fodder yearn for. I do not consider commercial success as a writer in this scenario. Much of what is printed is not "Well Written". It is "Adequately Written". 

I have to conclude then that the idea of "Writing Well" is in the eye of the person writing, while at the same time, also in the eyes of those who read those written words. I have no clue as to how well written my words are. I am fairly sure I am average and that's okay. I definitely write for my own satisfaction first and foremost. That some folks might find my words occasionally interesting is but icing on my cake.

I cannot advise anyone how to write like Steinbeck, Asimov or Mark Twain. What I do know is, anyone willing to be tenacious, patient, and self critical; they will most likely become better writers. So, stick with it. 

To all who have visited me here these past 20 plus years............. Thank You.

___________________________

The musical choice today will not have any purposeful connection to the post. I am going to begin listening to ............... Wait! 

The first song I played will most likely blow anything I might have had in mind out of the water. Here is, uh, not sure if this is the band or the tune, but here is "Penguins Groove in the Dark". It is the longest piece of music I have ever included with a blog post. The claim is, this 3 hour playlist of Jazz will increase "Creative Focus & Productivity".

All I know is, I am jumping in my chair, tapping my feet and listening to the sweet sounds of horns, drums and pianos, all rockin hard to burn down the joint. ......... My dad would love this. 

Just excellent! What a great find! ...........You are welcome.

When I Was Young

I am not the awesome physical specimen I was fifty plus years ago. I know that. Yet occasionally, my mind tries to trick me into believing I have a chance of recapturing that chiseled and ripped body I so briefly packed when I thought I would live forever.

Yeah, the reality of the me of today flies in the face of the me I sometimes still conjure up in my mind. I will never again play lacrosse at the college level, win another swimming championship, or play on a state champion softball team. And picking up a bike again is questionable now.

That I am even still here and upright after so many years of taking my body for granted is more a testament to luck and possibly some solid DNA than any conscious effort on my part to maintain the temple I was gifted at birth.

Hindsight being 20/20 and all, I realized in my thirties that the bad habits I picked up in my teenage years would probably demand some kind of retribution once I hit my old fart years. So, instead of listening to my early warning system, I forgot the alert, resumed my merry way, and continued to occasionally ingest all the tasty ugliness that tempted me, day in and day out. 

Now here I am pissin and moanin about what once was and what will probably never be again. Yeah, I have begun to fight back, but at this point, the effort is token at best. It is a mind over matter game now and I was never very good at that. Hell, it took me over 50 years of smoking before I was able to find the will to successfully quit.

Funny, the opening sentence I came up with while walking with Maggie in the woods did not turn into where I thought that sentence would take this post.  What I had originally envisioned for this post is not even close to the result I am reading now.  A best laid plan became a go with the flow result of an unintended ending. 

And so concludes another communication from the void I charitably call my mind.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................................

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Since I had no idea or thought concerning a musical choice for this post, I will continue to rely on my tried and true go with the flow style. ........... This could take awhile.

Damn. It only took a few tokes and a brief visit to YouTube to find the perfect song. Here is Eric Burdon and the Animals with their excellent tune, "When I was Young".

My Little Patch of Sanity

I don't get around as well as I used to. Ask most 72 year old's and I am fairly certain they would agree. If not, then good for them. I should be so lucky. 

I know that the aches and pains I deal with today could be alleviated some if I exercised more. Well, there's the rub. And it's a rub I have dealt with over the years every Spring getting in good enough shape for a summer of mountain biking. Improving fitness always brings discomfort(pain) and as each year passes, the rebirth process after a winter of slothful endeavors brings more discomfort(pain). The pains seem to invade new body parts with each passing year.

I have to embrace the pain; grin and bear it if I hope to control the worst of the pain in my future. Suffering a little now means less suffering later. Yeah, after so many Springs used up changing from a winter of listless and lethargic navel contemplation to a lifestyle of active physical efforts, I would hope I would be used to the pain involved in that transition by now. But every Spring the intensity of the initial discomfort shocks me for a week or so.

In recent years I guess I decided to not deal with the pain of shaping up. It is so much easier to continue the barco-lounger way of life and slowly waste away into the great beyond. Falling into the trap of inactivity is definitely the path of least resistance and with each new year under my belt, that path gets easier. I have told myself this many times this year so far:

"No fuckin around Mike. This Summer we rock. This Summer we get off the couch, turn off the computer, the TV and get busy".

For the last 6 or 7 years, after a couple of really agonizing weeks, I have given up and turned back into that torpid lizard sitting on a rock in the hot Sun. To be fair, I have had some health challenges that made it easier to sit than not. Tick borne illnesses and Covid did kick my butt and bouncing back has been hard. Regardless, I have begun to be more active. How long this lasts will depend on if the chronic aches and pains I have developed do not get any worse.

I have to thank the influx of mountain bike videos on my Facebook page for my recent efforts to be more active. I used to love riding my bike in the woods. Nothing made me happier. Now, I want to do it again. But I have to be in better shape to even attempt it. So I started walking almost every day with Maggie over in Mary's Woods across the road from my dooryard. 

Those woods have been a special place for me since I was in high school. I fixed up a bench from cut up deadfall and I bet I have consumed 100 joints sitting there while I watched and listened to the woods get on with their day. So, if for some reason I again fall off the fitness wagon, If nothing else, I am calmer these past couple of weeks. Sitting on some old logs in the woods can do that for me.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................

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Since I am in the early optimism about the future for myself and again feeling better about our country's direction with the stand out duo, Harris and Walz, looking to kick some GOP butt in November, I figure a song from Tracy Chapman might be appropriate. Here is "New Beginning", the title track of her 1995 album, "New Beginning".

Wild Flowers

On our walk over to Mary's Woods yesterday, Maggie took me out at the knees. I am sure she meant no harm. Just playing. Problem is, it hurt like Hell. She hit me at full speed on my right knee and drove it backwards. As I went down I remembered thinking this was going to take awhile to heal. 

It is now the next day and I was right. The knee is stiff and swollen and complains with every step. I try to limit the discomfort of being 72 by first, not falling down and second, not taking any kind of hit on my knees, ankles or hips. Yesterday's tumble it seems has created unhappiness in all three joints. 

Just fuckin great. 

This morning I was determined to not cave to the aches and pains I woke up with. Maggie and I headed across the road and I gimped and limped my way through a 45 minute walk. I didn't cover much ground in those 45 minutes, but Maggie sure did. She came home happy. I came home.

While we were traipsing around Mary's Preserve, I decided to check on the small cluster of Rattlesnake orchids that have existed 70 feet off the trail for over 50 years. I was concerned as the last snowstorm turned southern Maine into a FEMA site. Acton specifically, was close to, if not right on top of Ground Zero. Lots of branches down. Lots of trees uprooted. The deadfalls were everywhere.

Because these little orchids are hard to find, especially in the Spring and early summer, it took me a few minutes to locate them. Their site had been spared any major disturbance and I was happy to see the Rattlesnake patch doing well. There may even have been some expansion.

There are several kinds of Rattlesnake Orchids. The patches I find in the woods around here are specifically named "Downy rattlesnake-plantain". They exist in odd spaces and blend in so well, they seem to be invisible; that is, until the end of summer when they might produce flowers. I have only seen this patch produce flowers a few times. Another bunch further into the pucker on private property is larger and I always find flowers there when I check in August.

Downy rattlesnake-plantains are found throughout the USA and southern Canada. Maine recommends leaving them alone as they are not common and very rarely are they successfully transplanted. Their nutritional needs are specific and don't exist many places.

So there you have it; another successful post by MRMacrum that does not mention the orange shit gibbon or the total clusterfuck that makes up current events today. I hope to continue my boycott of all things MAGA. Each day I do, I can feel a little more sanity creeping back into my soul.

Later Gators .................................

_______________________

I definitely created a monster when I decided to add a musical number to each post. Some days it is easy; the post points to a tune or a tune points to a post and finding a song is the easiest part of  of creating the post. Other days like today, I am floundering hard. ........ What song works here?

It took awhile before I had an epiphany. A song I have always liked came to mind. Not only did it fit my mindset, It gave me the title for the post. Please enjoy "Wildflowers" by Tom Petty.

A Rite of Spring

This morning while I walked with Maggie across the road in Mary's Woods, another Rite of Spring slammed me hard as I approached the lower section of the preserve. I walked right into my first seasonal cloud of black flies. And yes, this years crew is as numb as all the others who have passed in my lifetime. It only took a second or two for three of the dumb little bastids to get caught behind my glasses. Frantic  and with no where to go they beat themselves silly before I was able to remove my glasses and set them free. 

Spring has finally set up shop as it always does. I don't know why the cycle surprises me each year. I always seem a little taken aback when confronted with the first onslaught of Black Flies. 

Unlike mosquitoes, I cannot ignore black flies. Their stupidity and anarchist ways make them the ultimate pest. I might be able and do ignore their bites, I cannot escape their stupidity. Flying into my ears, mouth, nose, and becoming trapped behind my glasses drive me crazy. Thankfully their season is brief. 

I look forward to all of Nature's annual traditions, including black flies. They are an irritating comfort to me even as I cuss and fume when they find their ways into parts of my body usually left undisturbed. They remind me that the Cycle of Life will always carry on with or without my permission. 

Can't wait now for Deer Fly season. 

Keep it tween the Ditches .........................................

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I found a black fly song by Randy Spencer. It has a catchy title, "Black Flies" and was written while Randy was in Grand Lake Stream, Maine back in 1980. 

Stumbling Off the Trail

When I was in South Portland a month or so ago, I stopped in at Harbor Freight, that purveyor of all the gizmos any dad with shallow pockets could ever want. I bought a hi falutin headlamp that can blind low flying aircraft, should any decide to buzz me. I have been walking Maggie early mornings of late and under the canopy where it's dark as a pocket, this headlamp really lights up the night.

A week or so ago, I wondered just how well did I know the trails at Mary's Park across Sam Page Road from my dooryard. I had walked those trails thousands of times with a dog, dogs or just by myself. I knew most every root or embedded rock well. Most had tripped me up at some point in the last 50 + years. But could I navigate them without help? I began to turn off the headlamp to see if my memory was good enough to guide me out of the woods on trails I was familiar with.

Mixed results of course. Most stupid things I have ever done had mixed results. But for the most part I did fairly well, often making it 100 yards or so until I stepped off the trail or tripped over something. One morning I tripped over Maggie, who had decided to stop in front of me. Anyway, I was almost impressed with myself.

During these early dark thirty AM excursions, funny things happen to the light just before dawn. It might just be a glitch in the light sensing hardware of my brain. But if memory serves from my days of driving trucks at night instead of the day, those dim periods of transitioning light at Dawn and Sunset have always been tricky. 

One morning when I turned off my headlamp, I was faced with a wall of  light waves vacillating between dark and light. It looked and felt like a Acid Trip flashback. I stopped and reveled in the optical confusion and quickly pulled a couple of tokes off the  joint I had cradled in my hand. Maggie ran by me and through the wall of wavering light creating a series of trails as the light waves opened and scattered for a moment. It was awesome.

I find stumbling around in the dark to be more fun than it sounds. And I should. I have been a stumbler since the day I was born.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ..................................

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I gave up looking for a tune yesterday when I wrote this post. Nothing I found fit or even came close. What a difference 24 hours makes. Here is an easy listening tune from Sheryl Crow, with James Taylor sitting in. I have never heard it before. "Flying Blind". Enjoy 

It's a Rain Out

Normally I would say that Labor day was ruined here in the pucker brush of southern Maine. There will be no outdoor BBQ's under blue skies, no volley ball on sandy beaches, nor any pleasant moments sitting on a dock on a pristine lake sipping Mai Tai's. It's solid, no bullshit raining outside and has been all night I think. It is supposed to be gone by afternoon, but this is Maine; only believe what you see when open your front door.

Though many annual outdoor festivities will be limited today, I figure the rain is a damn sight better to see than happy smiling groups sitting on logs eating Smores. We can party anytime. The rain, well, the rains have been mostly missing in action this summer. And this one is a soaker. Excellent.

Maggie hates the rain. I have to yank her out almost kicking and screaming so she can do what dogs do after eating and drinking. But because we never had the foresight to potty train her, or for that matter, find a toilet that would make that possible, out in the rain she goes. Funny thing though, she refuses to be out there by herself in the rain. If I do not accompany her, she will just hang out at the door and whine.

"What the Hell dude? You make me go outside in the rain, but you won't get wet with me? That's Bullshit and you know it."

I hang my head and step out there with her. Fair is fair.

I will say, the rain certainly makes her focus better. No chasing butterflies; no stopping to smell her last dump. She's all business. Piss and shit; three minutes and we are headed back to the bunkhouse. 

I don't make plans much anymore. So today has not been ruined nor did it force me to find alternative activities to engage in. I mighta, coulda, and maybe shoulda done some kind of grunt work out in the yard today. That would be a classic way to spend "Labor Day". But no, the rain ruined that idea. Hey, another reason to be grateful for the rain.

As I reveled selfishly in the pleasure of much needed rain, I was crudely and rudely brought back to reality when the news reminded me that many parts of the world have been suffering from too much water in the form of torrential summer rains and in Pakistan, their glaciers are breaking up. What a tragedy.

One man's blessing is often another man's curse. Never so evident than in today's environments.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................

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Music on this rainy day should have a rain theme I think. My first search yielded too many choices. Seems we like to write about rain almost as much as we write about sex and romance. 

Immediately I thought of Creedence Clearwater Revival and John Fogerty's fascination for rain: or so it seems anyway. I picked "Who'll Stop the Rain" because it is a rain on someone's parade tune and it is a song used in the 1978 Movie, "Who'll Stop the Rain"; which was/is a great movie you may never have heard of.

Check out the tune and maybe the movie also.

We Don't Deserve this Planet

It's Saturday morning. I haven't a clue about what to write. I've been poking around in the dust bin of my cranial void only to discover that the cranial void is indeed empty and actually lives up to its name. There may be a shadow or two dancing in and out of the weak light, but for all intents and purposes, there is not even a promise or inkling of any worth waiting to be shared.

On that note, after copious amounts of coffee, a few righteous tokes, and after an hour of dealing with the mundane chores I usually steer clear of, I came here with something to share but in this run up to the big share, damned if I haven't become lost in the wonderment of my own words and forgotten from whence I came and why.

Whew! That was a long sentence. I used to write that way all the time. When it works, it can be a wonderful way to express myself. More often than not though, it falls flat and inspires no awe and leaves the reader thinking, "What the Fuck?" I know for sure it hasn't worked when I read what I just wrote and go, "What the Fuck" ?

We have had a couple of A+ days recently. We have one more time, been lifted out of the Heat Wave summer we are not used to here in the Pine Tree State. Mainers can take the bugs. They handle the cold and snow without thinking about it. We look forward to Mud Season. But the heat, Jeezus, it gets into the low 80's and we start melting. No exaggerations, I am not shitting you, people melt up here, become puddles, and have to be scraped up off the asphalt. We hate the Heat. Well, I do anyway. 

One of the reasons I settled here in Maine was because of the cooler temps. I have lived in warmer climes like Florida in the 1960s and Maryland in the 1960s and 70s. Yeah, I am no stranger to heat and humidity. I learned at an early age that when it is cold, you can always warm up by putting on more clothes. When it is hot, you can only take so much off and if you are still hot, you are a loser. 

Of course I came up with this observation back in the days before universal interior climate control. Now days, most folks would not think about not having air conditioning where ever they are; the house, work or while driving their car. Climate control is no longer something odd and special. We take it for granted now.

BA and I have acknowledged that Air Conditioning has its place, but its presence is not necessary usually up our way; a couple of weeks a summer maybe. We have AC in our cars, but not the house. This summer, there were many days in a row I wanted to have any excuse to drive the car somewhere so for awhile, a few instances, I could bask in the cool air hitting me in the face off the dash. I cannot imagine how miserable further south has been. 

All this brings to mind that we have ended up with what we deserve for being such poor stewards of a beautiful planet. And I don't want to hear recriminations, denials, or accusations. The shitty climate we are dealing with now is at the least partially our fault, but more likely, mostly our fault. Regardless, we were warned it was coming over 50 years ago. Instead of taking commonsense measures to mitigate the future Hell we were and are facing, we turned the issue into a political football being tossed back and forth while nothing got done. ..........  The conversations were endless and useless. 

We don't deserve this planet.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................

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Once I remembered this cover of a favorite Led Zeppelin tune I knew this was the song for this post. Enjoy turned to WOW, here it is, "When the Levee Breaks" - from "Playing for Change", a charity working towards Peace through music. Performers around the Globe work together remotely to create some of the best music available today. It's a damn good charity also.

Finally, a Local Youngster to Vote For.

It's Primary Day here in Maine. Maine is not an open primary state. That is, only registered Republicans or registered Democrats can vote for members of their own party. 

But in 2024, Maine will hold semi-open primaries allowing unaffiliated voters to vote for whoever they want. The semi open title indicates that Republicans and Democrats still have to vote in their party's primary. They cannot cross over.

I think a totally open primary would be better, but what we have is what we have. And bringing in semi-open primaries is way better than the old system. 36% of Maine voters list themselves as Independents. Allowing them to vote in primaries will have a major impact on who runs in the general elections. Participation of unaffiliated voters will offer up a truer representation of where the political winds blow and will enhance the power of a huge group of voters who were previously muzzled by self the serving political rules set up by the Democrats and Republicans. It is time for the two party system to choke and die on the vine.

But I did not mean to go on about our system here in Maine. It has actually worked pretty well over the years; certainly more equitably than many other states. And in 2024, it will be even better.

So this morning the plan called for a good walk with Maggie and Sammie (my daughter and son in law's dog ). Ever since our previous dog, Stubby, lost her leg to a speeding car fifteen or so years ago, I have come up with a ritual that never varies when escorting fur buddies across Sam Page Road to head into Mary's Park. 

It was 5:30 AM and even though there was little chance of traffic, I took them to the edge of the road, gave them a sit command, unleashed Maggie and told them both to continue to sit. Neither of them like to park their butts on sand, but eventually they complied. After exaggerated looks both ways, I said, "Okay". Maggie was across the road in a flash and Sammie the Pit/Bull mix did his best to dislocate my shoulder or rip my arm off;  he didn't care which. He's such a big doofus.

This morning however I noticed someone had planted a political sign in front of my property. At first I assumed my wife had okay-ed it. When we got back to the house and my wife finally made an appearance around 6:30 AM, she assured me no one had asked her for permission.

With a healthy head of steam pumping up my righteous indignation I fussed and fumed my way out to the road, yanked that damn sign out of the ground and brought it back to the house. My wife agreed it was bush league to place a sign without permission but offered up;

 "We don't know who put it there; calm down ferchrisakes."

Yeah well, she can be a pain in the ass like that and it really pisses me off when she so rudely talks me out of a righteous moment of anger. But when she's right, I find caving is easier than the alternative. So I made some coffee instead; then sat at the computer and did some googling.

Daniel Norwood is an interesting candidate in these here parts. He came here to Acton from Guatemala as a youngster. How young I am not sure. But his history is that of 29 year old man who has actively sought public service for many years. This run for Maine Senate is his first shot at elected office. He is not the typical town politician who is trying to move up to the bigger pond in Augusta. Finally we have a candidate who challenges the traditional white, straight, Gen-xer or Boomer clone we seem to pump out every other election. He pushes our comfort zone and I love it.

I watched his You Tube video and was impressed with his thoughtful notions regarding privilege and the reason his placard is purple. We later swapped some messages and I let him know about how not to anger folks by planting signs without permission. It may be legal, but it is stupid to not ask first.

Anyhow, Daniel's entry into state politics from our district is bound to bunch some panties on both sides of the aisle. Daniel does not care. He realizes this election is but part of his learning curve, some of the dues he will have to pay to climb the political ladder. He seems to be in it for the long game. No matter how it turns out for Daniel this election, Maine has not seen the last of him. I am voting for him. He is the sign of things to come and we had better get used to Millennial's and all their new fangled ways.  

Keep it "tween the ditches ................................................

____________________________

There was only one tune I thought of. Again a song from my youth seems more appropriate today than back in the day. Here is Bob Dylan singing "The Times They Are A - Changin" . Recorded in 1964 I think before he went electric.

Learning to Not Be So White

It took most of a lifetime for him to realize many of the riches he had been blessed with were based on his skin color. He was born pale and hairless; a puny lump of puking, shitting, totally dependent squirmy piece of flesh. But he happened to be White. His chances of good luck in his future were higher right out of the gate than the life prospects of the black, brown and yellow people living down back roads that crossed defining tracks separating Humanity into various groups based on imagined figments of superiority or inferiority.

It did not take him many years to believe his color, his race defined his greatness. The traditions of his ancestors insisted on their supremacy from centuries of exploiting folks whose only weakness was slower technical development. In his child like ignorance, he used his luck of the draw advantages as his due. Subjugating others became not an evil, but business as usual. He even convinced himself he was doing all the unwashed masses a huge favor by allowing them to bask in his White greatness.

And now multiple generations later, the unwashed masses have caught up and are insisting on the real equality they feel is owed them after so many years of exploitation. The latest progeny of the White Culture looks on a landscape his ancestors never envisioned. All around him the bedrock philosophy of his race is being attacked. His knee jerk reaction was it is an unfair and unwarranted surprise attack on him personally, using the evil committed by his White ancestors as an excuse.

Had not his forebears passed laws that turned the masses into humans just like him? Had not advantages he had never been given been bestowed gratis on the multi-colored rabble? Wasn't he and his race to be given credit where credit was due? Why were they still bitching? 

The White Man could not see past his anger over their lack of gratitude. He did not, could not, would not recognize the fact that passing laws and refraining from racial slurs was not enough. The reality was all those moments of progressive racial and ethnic actions were in reality turning out to be but window dressing disguising the ingrained racist history many white folk did not even know still existed.

The unwashed masses were still angry, still ungrateful. And White Folk all over the land were perplexed and soon many became angry and re-located their White Legacy of embedded racial hate. Not enough made any effort to walk in the shoes of the unwashed masses. They just hunkered down with their White hate and dug out Great, Great  Grand Dad's Confederate flag and dangled it from their pick up truck; all the while failing to acknowledge just how lucky they were to be White. They did not realize that just being White automatically removes much of the baggage the unwashed masses are saddled with the day they are born. 

The White Man liked to consider himself a fair man, an empathetic man, a man who was concerned about his fellow man. Slowly he began to calm down and tried to look at the new culture of racism from outside his classic clueless and skewed White perceptions. 

Inch by inch, article by article, speech by speech, he began to question the legacy that had been handed him from his White ancestors. He knew they had probably been good people who thought they were in the right. But he began to understand that racial superiority is ingrained so deeply, it would be years after he was dead and gone before it was resolved.

In the meantime, he vowed to try and not be the White Man he used to be.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................................

__________________________

Not sure I want to find a song that would be appropriate to the post. But I have created a tradition such as it is with a musical number to go with the post. 

I thought finding an appropriate tune would take some serious screening of more than a few tunes. But I picked the first one I listened to. Here is Billie Holiday singing, "Strange Fruit" .

Something most White Folk never had to consider for their kind.

Shy Orchids

 This morning around 5:15 AM my smart phone told me it was a comfortable 48' F outside. I checked my real thermometers attached to the house and the phone's claim was in the ball park. It was also overcast with no wind out there. The 48' F chill would most likely keep the biting bugs in bed longer than usual. It was perfect dog walking weather. Maggie and I hit the trail over to Mary's Park about 5:20 AM. 

Early morning walks are my favorite when I can muster my sorry ass out there to enjoy them. No matter what excuse I might use to find something else to do, I know that if I walk, my day is already starting with a best foot forward action. And Maggie, she's beside herself with joy when she sees me put on my hat and grab the leash with outdoor collar attached. She will do her best to place that collar on by herself, but her other animated movements, the jumping, snorting and whining often make the routine a real clown show.

The usual procedure is I walk Maggie on the leash to the edge of Sam Page Road.  Pulling at the leash, it usually takes me two r three "Sit" commands before she obeys. I go through exaggerated motions of looking Right and then Left, while verbally reinforcing the rules of safely crossing the road. And as usual, Maggie sits and looks at me thinking, "Get on with it Asshole, I have scents to chase." Making sure she is on board with the safety tip, I release the leash, tell her "wait" and when the road is clear, which at five in the morning, it usually is, well, I motion with my hand and she bolts across the road and runs in circles while I saunter across the road.

So we began our walk, or rather I strolled in a classic rendition of an old man shuffle while Maggie bolted, sprinted, turned on dimes and 2 minutes in, her tongue was already hanging close to the pine needles. A happier dog did not exist in that moment. By walk's end I am sure the difference in MPH and distance traveled between us was at least 6 to 1; advantage - Maggie. 

The cooler morning gave her more energy. And to that point, it also did the same for me. I am sure if I had kept track, I would have ended with a faster time and a longer distance than any walk this Spring. I was smokin, drivin hard. Must have been averaging 1/2 MPH at least. ... No Boast. Really...... Stop shakin your heads. 

As fast as I was turning over those RPM's, it is a wonder I was able to catch glimpse of my first "Pink Lady's Slipper"of the year. So many years prior I did not see one until well into June and sometimes I only noticed them by their absence. Come and gone long before I thought about them.

They are more often spotted as solo acts.  This year I screeched to a halt in a prime location in which to find these illusive beauties. My conscious stop based on previous experience was this was possibly ground zero. I found a half dozen within a 20 square feet or so area. Tomorrow I will look for more. If memory serves, the most Pink Lady Slippers I have found over to Mary's Woods is 14. And this morning I hit almost half that with 29 more days to go to find more.

Lady Slippers are a wild orchid family found throughout at least the northern states. I used to think they only came in three colors,; Pink (the most common), White and Yellow. Apparently I am wrong. According to the U.S. Forest service, there are 11 varieties of Slippers. And the one I have always known as the Pink Lady's Slipper is also called the Moccasin Flower. 

They don't just grow anywhere, what with being fussy about soil nutrients, soil consistency, amount of sunlight needed and I think they just choose to locate few and far between. Spotting one always makes me smile.

Now I can't wait for the other orchid I look for to flower. The Rattle Snake Hawkweed in its own way is as beautiful as the Lady Slipper and even more infrequent and shy. They will start budding up in August.

Both plants are not protected here in Maine. There is no penalty for uprooting them and attempting to plant them in a yard. But from what I have heard, successfully transplanting them is more often than not a big fail. So, please don't yank them. Don't be a Bush Leaguer. Leave them alone and let them pose for your cameras. 

Watching Nature always ends up being a more positive experience for me than most anything else I can do outside the privacy of my own home. ...... Stop Snickering dammit!

Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................

__________________________

Musical choice this morning is of course Tom Petty's "Wildflowers"

My Excuse Index

It's another dreary rainy day in April. 39' F. Just enough rain coming down to make me wish I had found that umbrella or rain coat before I went out with Maggie for her morning pee. Any outside plans I may have had for today should have been attempted yesterday before I put them off to accomplish today. I was sure I would be in more of a nose to the grindstone state of mind on a Tuesday than on a Monday, the least productive day of any week.

Of course I failed to and still fail to acknowledge that every day in my life now is not a Monday, nor any other day of the week. Now days, every day is nothing but another day of retirement. And that is fine. But with every day holding the same significance , trying to use excuses for my slothly ways based on traditional working man excuses falls flat. Again, that's okay. I just invoke one of the new rules I have developed because of retirement. There are no rules now, I'm retired. ............ Yeah, I am good with that.

Does this mean I no longer have any obligations and duties? Of course not. I have just adjusted my excuse index to reflect my new station in Life. If there is work to be done, in case of an emergency or even just because I do not feel like doing it, there needs to be a work around work that will be there the waiting for whenever, so why push so hard? After all Life is now but a really long weekend.

Nothing like enjoying the guilt of not doing what you promised yourself you would do.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................

______________________

My music choice for this post has to be "Lazy", by Deep Purple. Saw them at Constitution Hall in DC, 1971 - I think. 

  

Believing Absurdities

"Those who can make you believe absurdities,"

"Can make you commit atrocities."

Voltaire is credited with this quote. And though his works are now often viewed as quaint and out of touch by many members of the modern day Intelligentsia club, without his words and the words of others from the Age of Enlightenment, we might not have our Constitution, never mind our Declaration of Independence.

Voltaire and his awesome collection of literary works is not my focus however. I am more interested in how his example is but more support for my mother's contention that:

 "There really is nothing new under the Sun"

She often invoked this adage when some event, usually horrible, found its way into the current events of the time. 

All the sins and evil of the eons of Human Existence have replayed countless times on every square foot of this planet. The technology may change. The location may change. But in the end, we dumb ass humans are continuing to practice the same kind of stupidity our knuckle dragging forebears thought of first.

The quote is a perfect example that is supported today by the current trend of absurdities that have this country in their grip. That the wave of absurdities continue to overwhelm common sense is the forebear for future evil in our lives. We are primed and ready to fall into a slump of astronomical proportions. The population of USA has foolishly chosen to believe our own myths without question and are now headed for real trouble. Instead of arguing over what is for dinner, we would rather argue over how our table is set. 

Any evil that comes Humanity's way will be well deserved. We will always own the resulting circumstances because we created the fruitful ground for the latest evil to sprout from.. The problem lies in the fact that our technology may have finally caught up to our evil aspirations and at some point, we might not bounce back.

Captain Stremba, my junior year english teacher in high school, wrote in my yearbook in 1969:

"Degeneration is around the corner ... Watch!"

He was right of course. Degeneration is one of the constants of Human existence.

Later ..........................................

My Two Bucket Bench

I was out back sitting on my two bucket bench this morning sipping coffee and chastising Maggie once again for finding another disgusting Nature treat in the yard. She was not having any of it. She laid down some thirty feet away from me, placed the leaf covered delicacy between her paws and began to gnaw on it. And then she had the gall to look up at me with her "You're not the boss of me" stare.

I was almost angry enough to get off my two bucket bench and ..... No. Instead, I turned on my come hither voice and finally, on the fourth or fifth 'Maggie Come", she dropped the treat and meandered in my direction, being careful to not look me in the eye. She knew. ............ Yeah, she knew.

I got her to sit within arm's reach and after much cajoling, she turned her head and faced me. I launched into the same speech I always launched when she stuck an ugly bit of something or other in her maw. Using hand gestures and injecting several "Look at me's", I finally gave up. Her vacant eyes told me all those wasted words did not strike a chord with her. For her part, Maggie was satisfied it was over and she immediately found her recent tidbit and laid down facing away from me to enjoy it without recrimination. She knew I was all hat and no cattle. Damn dog.

I went back to enjoying my two day old coffee and the roach from last night and shifting my attention to something else. Problem was I had made the mistake of watching too much news this morning. Watching the news is like passing an accident. I never want to look, yet I always do. My mind immediately refocused on the latest nonsense and dysfunction being dreamed up by our all stars in DC. I had recently promised myself to not let them back into my head, yet there they were, once again worming their way to the top of my attention span. 

I could not let that happen. I had been working too hard lately to free myself from the media's insidious grip on me. The news industry was nothing but a collective of  peddlers and purveyors of the words, ideas and actions of evil people who did the bidding of the really evil people ensconced behind closed doors in smoke filled rooms. The media was the gate protecting the gated community of the unadulterated information from being exposed without the proper twist and pat on the head from the moneyed elite.

I often have trouble emptying my mind. More often than not, my mind is only empty when it shouldn't be. But this morning I concentrated and while I did not empty it, I did succeed in distracting it. 

I looked down on the reclaimed board sitting on the two reclaimed buckets I have been using as lawn furniture these last many years. How long have I had this particular set. Ten years? Twenty years? I could not remember. But I knew it was a long time. 

As I sat and dug for when I had first put a board on two joint compound buckets, I realized that I could remember using a variety of them in the early 1980s when I had a good sized garden producing more vegetables than our two or three dozen boxes of caning jars could handle. I remembered also when I put this particular set together. It was in 2004 when I hacked my secret garden out of the pucker brush on the Southeast side of the property. 

Suddenly my angst over news and events I had no power over disappeared and I relaxed. Life goes on no matter what happens out there and focusing on the bench I was sitting on was the most important thing in my life at that moment.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .....................................................

Her Majesty Has a Play Date

Right after I fed Maggie this morning we went out back so she could do her morning dog thing. Poop, pee and fart around smelling stuff. It was finally a typical day for this time of the year. The wind was up and the temperature was in the upper teens to low twenties. 

Maggie bolted out of the back door and began her routine. The wind blasted me in the face and I realized it was not tee shirt weather anymore.

"About time", I thought. 

The morning ritual was moving along with Maggie uncharacteristically keeping to her business and not finding some distraction to prolong our time outside. It was damn cold. The wind was blowing up my ass and I only had one thin short sleeved layer on. I was grateful she seemed to be on the same page as I was. Take care of business and get back into the house.

But no. Suddenly Maggie stiffened into her hunting dog stance. Her nose spiked up in the air and her nostrils flexed in and out as she took in as much of the scent as possible. Any thought of pooping was put on hold until she had investigated this incursion into her territory. She took off full tilt boogie into the pucker brush out back that formed the border between my property and the new neighbor's huge field. She loved nothing better than running at full speed anywhere. I caught glimpses of her as she dashed through the leafless brush and out onto the neighbor's field. 

A second later an explosion of turkeys took flight to escape this well known threat to their composure. A rafter of summer fattened turkeys taking flight is an impressive sight. For her part, Maggie stopped, sat, and watched the turkeys fly away. She was satisfied. She had done what she came to do. Chased those turkeys off her property. 

Now it was onto her next favorite thing. Eating the turkey poop left behind. Its always best when eaten fresh. Or so she informed me when I attempted to command her to stop.

She promised she would return to her regal ways once we were back in the house.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ......................................................

The "I Don't Give a Shit Cult"

I started out Life as an Episcopalian.  Once confirmed, I spent time as an acolyte and briefly considered traveling the road to priesthood.  I changed direction that day at Hot Shoppes in Bethesda when I watched my priest snuggling against and kissing a woman not his wife. I quit playing the religious game. Ever since I have only stepped foot in a church when customs warranted it; Weddings, funerals,etc.

No longer being a believer does not mean I am an Atheist or an Agnostic.  No, there is one place to settle that will drive the extremist advocates of the other 3 choices bonkers. I now belong to the Cult of the "I don't give a shit people".

We just do not care if there is a supreme being in charge of it all.  Believing or not believing does not alter our path from the cradle to the grave.  Shit will happen and has happened to us.  Worrying about fixing blame or credit is an exercise in futility.  Worrying about after life nightmares inflicted by mythical beings is just crazy.

What I do worry about though are all the abuses, billions of deaths, and cultural separations that have been part and parcel of almost every religion since their creation in Holier than Thou twisted minds before recorded Time began. It has nothing to do with silly fables thought up to scare children.  

Religion is about control and power in the here and now. Anything positive that happens through religion is only allowed as long as it helps in the continued dominance of the targeted population.  

That is not to say the emotional crutch Religion offers should be banned.  Believe. Don't believe.  I just do not care. But I will care deeply and will resist should religion ever become mandatory.  

Keep it 'tween the ditches .................................

A Much Needed Reset

Well it appears here in the States we are about to enjoy a much needed reset.  I know I need one.  The last four years of the hate and discontent fomented by Donald Trump was workin my last nerve hard.  No kidding and serious shit.

I have dumped life long friends.  That sounds awful, but I had to do it to alleviate the complete disgust I had for them and their enabling support of someone so awful and damaging to our country. The evil they helped to flow over our grand land in wave after wave finally drove any hint of kinship to them out into the dreary climate that had all of us by the short hairs.

Do I regret losing friends over someone so loathsome as Trump?  Hmm.  Some days, yeah I do. 

But then I find Maggie and stroke her hard.

Later ................